Flyover Country

Author's note: This is a long story, some 68,000 words in total. If you don't like lengthy stories, please pass this one by because you will not enjoy it. The story is being posted in 4 Parts submitted one day apart.

Thanks to Blackrandl1958 for her editing skills. I would also like thank Harddaysknight for taking a lot of time and energy to beta-read this tome and show me where to improve it. Both have helped me immensely and any errors that still exist below will be there because of mistakes I alone have made. I sincerely appreciate the sacrifices the two of them have made to help me get back in the game—after all, it's only been twelve years since I last posted a cheating wife story. J

The following is not a stand-alone story. To make any sense of this Part, you need to read Part 1 first.

* * *

Flyover Country, Part 2 (of 4)

By Longhorn__07

CHAPTER FOUR

I didn't really know what I wanted to do with my life from that point forward, but I was sure whatever I decided, flying would be a part of it. I took refresher courses to reactivate my pilot's certificate, including an instrument ground school and then flew with an instructor for a while to get current again.

My Uncle Jake, my mom's much older brother, and the man who taught me to fly, had passed away six years ago, leaving all his possessions to my mom. That included five small aircraft sitting behind what we called the "North Barn," some three-quarters of a mile away from the house. I put a trio of aircraft mechanics to work in their spare time getting all five back into shape for an FAA airworthiness certificate.

It didn't take very long. I was paying them for the job, not for the number of hours they worked, and I paid them very well. They found they had lots of free time to work on my planes. The five single-engined aircraft passed inspection easily, and I began selling them off to dealers, except for one I sold to a guy with a private pilot's certificate who wanted to get in more flying hours and not pay exorbitant rates renting aircraft. I gave him a especially good deal because he reminded me, of me. I didn't make much money selling Uncle Jake's planes, but I hadn't expected to—didn't need to either.

Finally, I only had one left and I wasn't even trying to sell it. I loved taking it up and getting an hour or two in the sky, just me and the plane.

* * *

I was sitting at a picnic table in the shade of a huge pecan tree outside what looked like a dilapidated old building with a relatively small sign out front identifying the place as simply, JESSE'S. To the locals who frequented the place, no further description was necessary. Jesse was an old black man who looked like he'd just been freed from slavery by a troop of Sherman's cavalry as they galloped past a plantation on their way east out of Atlanta. No one knew how old he actually was, but it didn't matter. Jesse's served up the finest barbeque in the known world, though only the locals, and select passers-by from the city were aware of it.

Late August is hot in Texas—no doubt about it—but at just before straight-up noon, under the spreading branches of the tall pecan, and with a gentle breeze blowing, it was pleasant enough. There was a light plume of aromatic smoke lifting from the smokers out back (as it did twenty-four hours a day) which made folks hungry for miles around. Contrary to the apparent state of disrepair, the place was so clean, inside and out, you could literally eat off the floors.

I came here as often as I could, which was fairly frequently since it lay on the best route between the big city and Mom and Dad's place—my place, now. I couldn't get used to thinking of my new home as "mine."

Today, I wasn't en route to or from anywhere. I just had a craving for some good old Texas brisket and I used the last one of Uncle Jake's planes, an old Cessna 172, to get to Jesse's. There was a huge expanse of prairie adjoining the mowed and well-kept grassy expanse around his business, and he didn't mind at all if I used part of that prairie as a landing strip. It wasn't his, for one thing.

There were a number of picnic-style tables outside under the trees for general use and I was sitting at one, enjoying the day and a great lunch. I was still finishing up a huge brisket sandwich still dripping some of the barbeque sauce I'd poured over the meat. I was steadily working my way through the borracho beans and mustard potato salad too.

While I ate, I was contemplating going back inside to get a big slab of the pecan pie Jesse made fresh daily. My reasoning was that I was working hard every day and easily working off all the calories I was taking in. Therefore, a little pecan pie wasn't going to hurt my waistline one darn bit. That was my theory. Hell, it might even have been true.

I wasn't really paying attention to what was going on around me. I was vaguely aware of the traffic passing by on the worn two-lane blacktop off to my left—the table was roughly at right angles with the road—but I wasn't watching closely. The shimmer of heat waves rising off the blacktop gave me a headache.

I did know when a couple of carloads of young twenty-something folks drove into the parking lot, but I wasn't interested enough to bother with looking them over, even though I could hear a number of feminine voices. I was just barely thirty, but with all that had happened in my life, I didn't have much in common with people who had a 2 as the first digit of their age.

I just kept eating and eyeing Jesse's front entrance over there in front of me. The brisket virtually melting in my mouth was occupying most of my thoughts, along with increasingly vivid images of delicious pecan pie.

There were voices from the direction of two tables full of yuppies, but I wasn't listening—until something did finally register.

"You're gonna just go over there and sit down with ... that cowboy over there?" said a voice I didn't recognize. "Jeeeze! What if...?" someone asked incredulously.

That got my attention. In addition to an old pair of comfortable cargo shorts, an old shirt that had been blue at one time, and a pair of sturdy hiking boots, I did have on a cream-colored Stetson, but lots of folks in rural Texas wore that style of hat. I started to look around to see who else might be the target of that comment.

"He's my ex husband," replied another voice shortly, cutting off the conversation.

I recognized that voice well enough. I turned my head half-left to see my dear ex wife striding determinedly in my direction. My first thought—a thoroughly unchristian one, I admit—was, "Oh shit! What the hell does she want?"

She paused a couple feet short of my table. "I know you probably hate me," she began, "...but could I sit down and talk with you for a minute?"

I put the remains of my brisket sandwich down and took off my sunglasses so she could see my eyes. Mom taught me many years ago that was only polite. I did it automatically these days.

"I don't hate you, Faye," I said quietly. Her friends were sitting were close enough to hear if I spoke loudly, but I didn't think anything Faye and I had to say to each other was any of their business.

"I hate some of the things you've done," I continued. "But hating you would be too hard on me ... it takes up too much time and energy. So, no, I don't hate you at all." I extended my right hand, palm up, fingertips pointing to the bench seat opposite me. "Sure ... please sit," I added.

"Well ... I wouldn't blame you if you did," she sighed, throwing one leg over the bench and bringing the other along behind. She settled down and got comfortable. "I really went off the rails there for a while..."

I didn't say anything to that. From my point of view, it was undeniably true, but I didn't feel the need to reiterate how I felt about it. She, of all people, already knew my opinion of what she'd done. She was quiet for a minute, then she took her sunglasses off and put them on the tabletop close to mine to show me her beautiful green eyes.

"How've you been, Matt?" she asked, breaking the short silence.

"Doin' pretty darn good, thanks," I replied lightly, "...and you?"

"I'm good. I'm going to night school ... but you know that. Dad says he told you. I'll be starting next semester at UT ... I'm going to be a PA, a Physician's Assistant."

"Excellent," I replied. "Glad things're looking up," I added. I didn't know what else to say. I was seriously not interested in anything she was doing. It wasn't my responsibility to be her cheerleader anymore.

"So ... I ... Matt, I know in all the commotion, I never did tell you that I was sorry for what I did, but I really am. Like I said, I wouldn't blame you if you hate me, but I hope someday you'll find a way to forgive me—"

"I absolutely do not hate you, Faye," I interrupted, "...and I've already forgiven you." I paused to organize my thoughts. I shrugged. "I just don't have enough time or energy to hate you. It would eat me alive, Faye, and it wouldn't get me anywhere. I think being mad all the time would sour me on darn near everything else in the world and, like they say, life's too short."

"Okay ... thank you for that," she replied. She leaned forward a little on the bench seat toward me, pushing into a comfort zone she had no business, or right, to be inside any longer. "I'm seeing a counselor," she said in a hushed tone.

I nodded.

"I think we're making some progress," she continued. "She's helped me see that decisions I make have consequences down the line and they affect lots more people than just me," she offered. I nodded again. "If I'd understood how bad things would be, I never would have done any of what I did, Matt ... and I'm truly sorry for what I put you through."

I felt my forehead creasing with a frown when she said that. Without really meaning to, I shifted restlessly on the hard bench. Faye noticed my expression and sensed my disapproval.

"What?" she asked with a smattering of irritation in her voice. "I'm trying to apologize here and show you I'm working on being a better person now. I know better than to act like I did back then..."

"Faye ... I think your counselor is wasting your time ... and probably your dad's money, too," I returned, "if that's all she's trying to get you to understand. Well, I don't know ... maybe that's just a first step and she still has some ground to cover."

I paused to gather my thoughts. "You see, to me, when you tell me you wouldn't do something because the consequences are too harsh, you're saying the punishment for ... whatever that something is ... is too tough, so you won't do it again."

She was even more unhappy. I was calling into question whether she'd actually changed or not.

"But Faye," I added as gently as I could, "...don't you understand? That's a kind of a 'risk analysis', isn't it? You're saying, 'I won't do this or that because I don't want to get caught and get punished really bad'. See what I mean?"

I stretched my left leg out to the side and scooted my butt that way. I was going to be leaving pretty soon and I was making preparations.

"But, I remember reading one time, someone said 'Integrity is doing the right thing when no one is watching'. I just don't think, Faye ... until you and your counselor get to the point where you don't have the temptation to have sex outside your marriage simply because it's the WRONG thing to do, then someday down the line you'll be tempted again and you'll decide, in some unique set of circumstances, the consequences won't be TOO severe, or that no one will be looking, so you won't get punished. See what I mean?"

She drew in a deep breath. She was still irritated, but maybe she was listening. I couldn't really tell.

"To me," I plowed on. There are temptations out there every day for everybody, and we're human—we're flawed—but unless a person's instincts are to ignore a temptation without even thinking about it ... without making a risk analysis, then... Well, I just think it'll lead, sooner or later, to a tragedy ... like this."

She was staring at me, a little pissed off and clearly ready to amp up her anger. "Well ... I guess I'm just not as perfect as some people," she snapped. She pulled back, biting her lips. Her expression changed and she visibly worked to tone things back down. She shook her head, took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"I loved you, Matt," she told me, changing the subject, "whether you believe me or not ... I really did."

"And I loved you!" I shot back. "I proved it by never cheating on you!" If she could get all pissed off, so could I.

She had the good grace to wince and look away. "But, telling my Mom and Dad, and my brothers and sisters ... and everybody we knew ... you call that love?"

I snorted a little. "Isn't that a little like blaming the messenger, Faye? All I did was shine a light on what you and the Asswipes were up to. Kinda like turning over a rock and watching all the slimy things scatter, ya know?"

I was getting steamed. I took a deep, deliberate breath and made my jaw muscles relax and forced my shoulders to loosen, even slump a little.

"And ... as for the way it went down," I said matter-of-factly, "all I did was follow your guidelines."

She frowned and arched her eyebrows.

"Remember, Faye? You said you fucked around on me because you COULD, and because it was FUN. Well, that's what I did too."

"Do you know how hard it's been for me ever since you told God and everybody—?" Faye started defending herself again.

"That wasn't one of my considerations!" I told her quickly. "You didn't consider MY feelings, and you weren't concerned with what you would be putting me through, now were you?"

She hung her head and didn't answer.

Abruptly, I was through talking. This had become painful and I just didn't see the point of rehashing things best left in our past. I put my sunglasses back on, thrust my left foot out further and stood.

"Ahhh ... Faye ... listen, I'm probably out of line for bringing all that up ... it's just what was on my mind. Probably, the counselor was going to bring the discussion around to a better understanding of what went on sooner or later ... hope I haven't ruined her planning.

"And ... I need to get going. I'll leave you to your lunch, okay? Good to see ya!"

I took a half step backward to clear the picnic table, then paused and turned back to Faye. "And Faye, I did love you so very much, but you burned it all out of me one afternoon—there's nothing left. All I have is the memory of HAVING loved you. I'm sorry, I wish there was more ... but that's all there is. Goodbye, Faye."

I turned left and walked beside the low wall behind the picnic area. When I was beyond it, I turned half-left again and strode determinedly toward the gate leading out onto the open prairie and my little Cessna. I dropped the remainder of my meal into a trash barrel on the way.

I wasn't hungry anymore, not even for that big slab of pecan pie I'd been craving. I was going to miss it later. I'd kick myself for absconding before I got the treat I'd promised myself, but I'd had enough of my ex-wife for now—forever—and I wanted to be somewhere she wasn't.

* * *

Way back when I first conceived the idea of flying from the ranch to Jesse's to avoid an hour long drive over meandering Texas back roads, I tried—I really tried—to find the owner of the grassland on the other side of the barbed wire from Jesse's. I wanted permission to land my Cessna on the property, but I could never find the woman the county tax records said owned the land. So I just went ahead and used the prairie as my personal make-do airfield and left the question of landing rights for another day. If the owner came forward to complain, I'd stop using the grassy bit of ground and I would apologize most profusely.

Jesse's was separated from the wide swath of prairie by a barbed wire fence that had a fifteen foot long gate in it, not more than thirty yards from Jesse's main entrance. The gate had probably been installed there once upon a time so livestock could be loaded or unloaded from cattle haulers driven there. It was made of galvanized tubular steel and, while the galvanized steel hadn't rusted over the years, the hinges and the latch mechanism, had.

When I first got the idea of flying in to Jesse's, I'd examined the gate, found the problems that were there, and bought replacement parts. I spent most of a whole day, working alone, to fix the darned thing. Now there was a nice, wide gate with smoothly rotating hinges and a secure latching mechanism.

The woman was half-leaning forward onto the gate, braced with her hands on the topmost crossbar. She had the most stunning mane of thick, glossy black hair I'd ever seen. She wore it long—down to her buttocks—and it shown in the sunlight. I had an instant yearning to run my hands through it. I wanted to just feel the silken mass against my fingers.

She was of moderate height, maybe five feet, six inches or so and slender of build. She had slim, well-toned legs and delicate ankles over small feet. They were absolutely scrumptious legs. I've always been a dedicated leg man and could really appreciate what she had. Boobs begin to droop as soon as a girl gets out of high school, particularly big boobs. But so long as a woman keeps fit and uses her legs for what they were intended, they'll last for a long, long time.

As I came nearer, I could see her ass was beautifully rounded too, full without being bulbous. Okay, so I like nice butts too. Hey! They're attached to legs, right? I could feel a smile of appreciation spreading over my face. The memory of that irritating conversation with my ex-wife was fading quickly.

I planted myself a couple of yards to her left, not wanting to come up behind her and give her an impression of an overbearing male or anything. "It's a Cessna—" I'd been about to give her the model number and tell her a little about it, what its best speed was, and other useless information like that, but she cut me off.

"It's a little, bitty airplane!" the gorgeous, raven-haired woman told me in a matter-of-fact tone, turning to face me. She tipped her sunglasses forward and looked at me over the top of them. She had the most striking pair of crystal blue eyes I'd ever seen, and they were laughing at me.

"It is!" I replied, grinning back at her. "It barely has a front and a back seat in it and can't fly as fast as the race cars go at the racetrack. On the other hand, it flies in a straight line and it gets where it's going a lot quicker than a racecar, " I told her. I'd never noticed a tendency in myself to babble before, but this gorgeous woman had me doing just that.

I couldn't stop smiling. She looked as good facing me as she had from the backside when she was looking out over the prairie as I walked up. I was doing all I could to keep my eyes on hers, but I could see with my peripheral vision her breasts were firm and wonderfully rounded globes. They weren't incredibly big, but they were very, very nice, and she wasn't wearing a bra so I was treated to the sight of two diamond-hard nipples trying to poke holes in her top.

With her black hair and light caramel complexion, I figured she was of Mexican extraction, but the blue eyes probably meant some Irish son-of-a-gun was back there somewhere in her background ... and the genes from both sides had combined beautifully. I wanted to know this woman much, much better. I checked—there wasn't a wedding ring on her finger.

We talked for a while, chatting about the plane, the sky, the barbeque—whatever came to her mind. I was genuinely proud of myself for recovering and able to actually converse intelligently with her. Enough so that I didn't make any truly horrible gaffs, anyway.

"You're a pilot?" she asked.

"I am," I affirmed.